《The Arcanum Algorithm》

Chapter 3 The Inheritance of Scent

Old Ham did not live to see Grimm take a wife or bear a son.

The end came in the early spring, just as the sharp edge of winter began to soften. They had finished their work for the day and were returning from the village, a small keg of ale and a few pounds of meat on the cart—supplies for the morrow, when they planned to finally begin repairing the hut. Ham had been in unusually high spirits, talking at length about finding a suitable local girl for Grimm.

The next morning, Ham did not wake to call Grimm for work. He was gone, a faint, peaceful smile etched on his weathered face, as if his final dreams had been of a future he would never see. Grimm buried him on a small plot near the hut, placing the old man’s cherished pipe in the grave with him. It felt like the right thing to do.

A profound loneliness settled over Grimm in the days that followed. The hut felt cavernously empty without Ham’s rumbling voice or the familiar scent of his pipe. He was now the master of two rundown rooms, one old horse, a cart, and the sum of Ham’s life savings: two gold coins and seventeen silver ones. It was a fortune to a man like Grimm, yet it felt like a hollow inheritance.

His true treasure, hidden with the coins, was the book. Most evenings, by the faint, economical light of a single lamp, he would read through the *Manual of Olfactory Enhancement and Scent Cataloguing*. It was his window into an impossible world.

Summer arrived, bringing with it long, humid days. Grimm fell into the rhythm of his solitary life. One such day, after dumping the Viscount’s waste outside the city walls, he guided his cart to a tenant farm to collect supplies for the evening’s festivities.

He sat on the driver’s bench, watching puffy white clouds drift across a vast blue sky. A young woman named Mary worked efficiently beside the cart, loading it with produce. She wore a simple smock, a dusting of freckles across her nose, and her golden hair was tied back practically. Her heart hammered against her ribs as she stole glances at Grimm, finding his quiet focus unbearably handsome. To her, he even smelled wonderful, like fresh sun-warmed herbs.

Grimm was aware of her affection. Ham had pointed it out over a year ago, and the old man’s plan had always been for them to marry. But Grimm felt nothing more for her than a vague, brotherly fondness. Since Ham’s passing, he had done nothing to encourage her, their interactions limited to these daily exchanges during loading.

Seeing that the work was nearly done and that Grimm would soon leave, Mary mustered her courage. “Grimm,” she began, trying to sound casually excited. “A Sorcerer came through here this morning! He asked for directions to Bitherl. Everyone was stunned. I’d never seen one before!”

The word hit Grimm like a lightning strike. He jerked upright, his languid posture vanishing. “A Sorcerer? You’re certain?”

“Of course! Lots of people saw him,” she said, thrilled to have captured his attention.

“What did he look like?” Grimm’s voice was urgent, intense.

“He wore a big, grey robe and a tall hat. I couldn’t really see his face… it was sort of misty, unclear. He was carrying a frog… a frog with red eyes. He spoke to Irma, at the head of the village.”

Grimm didn’t wait to hear more. “Thank you!” he called out, already leaping from the cart and sprinting toward the small cottage where Irma and her husband, a hunter named Sogala, lived with their two children.

Sogala, a brawny and good-natured man, was surprised to see him. “Grimm! What brings you? Come, share some of yesterday’s hunt!”

But Grimm had no time for pleasantries. Half an hour later, he left their home, his mind reeling with a single, electrifying piece of information. The Sorcerer had indeed asked for the road to Bitherl.

He raced back to his cart, urging the old horse into a pace it hadn’t managed in years, his heart pounding with a frantic hope. He had to get to the city.

When he arrived at the Viscount’s estate, he found a scene of familiar tension. The vile old steward stood on the steps, flanked by four hulking knights, berating a crowd of a dozen farmers.

“Your land belongs to the Viscount! He will set the taxes as he sees fit!” the steward shrieked, his face purple with rage. “Are you looking for a rebellion? Drive them off!”

The knights waded into the crowd with casual brutality, their fists and boots quickly dispersing the protest. Grimm waited impatiently at a distance, seething. This happened every year.

As the last of the farmers stumbled away, Grimm guided his cart forward. The steward spotted him and barked, “Halt!”

He strode over, giving the supplies a perfunctory glance. “You’re late. Do you want to keep this job or not?”

Anger, hot and sharp, flared in Grimm’s chest. This wretched man had already extorted two silver coins from him this month. “I was here earlier, steward. The farmers were blocking the way.”

The steward’s eyes bulged. He was not used to being answered back. “You dare? You worthless wretch! You’re finished! Don’t come back tomorrow! Get out of my sight!” He spun to the knights. “If this vermin shows his face here again, break his legs. Or you’ll be joining him.”

Rage and humiliation burned through Grimm as the steward stormed away. He stood there, trembling, cursing the old man to the abyss. Then, a cold clarity cut through his fury. This changed everything.

He parked his cart under a large tree and ran, not home, but to a blacksmith’s forge on the edge of the city.

“Sixth Brother!” he called out to a large apprentice hammering at a blade.

The man looked up, his face breaking into a wide grin beneath a thick beard. “Eighth Brother!” He was taller and far broader than Grimm, his arms corded with muscle from years at the forge. They had been boys together, begging on the streets of Bitherl, numbered brothers for survival. Grimm had been taken in by Ham; Sixth Brother had found his place here.

“What brings you to my fire?” Sixth Brother asked, clapping Grimm on the shoulder with a hand that felt like a slab of stone.

“I need to know,” Grimm said, lowering his voice. “Is it true? A Sorcerer is in the city?”

Sixth Brother’s smile vanished. “How did you…? Yes. It’s true. He’s here to test the young ones. To see if they have the… the ‘aptitude’.” He said the word as if it were foreign and dangerous. “Costs a gold coin just to be looked at.” He nodded subtly toward the master smith, who was scowling by the furnace. “The old man took his son. The boy didn’t have it. He’s been in a foul mood ever since over the wasted coin.”

A gold coin. The sum was staggering. It was half of everything Grimm owned. A risk that could leave him destitute.

“Where is he?” Grimm asked, his voice tight.

Sixth Brother stared at him, aghast. “You can’t be serious, Grimm. That’s a fool’s gamble.”

“Where?” Grimm repeated, his jaw set.

After a long moment, Sixth Brother sighed. “The Lord’s manor. They say the Lord’s own daughter was the only one in the whole city found worthy.”